Crested Flycatcher 
fear, however, when I climbed into their apple 
tree one June morning, determined to have a 
peep at the five creamy-white eggs, speckled 
with brown and pale lilac, that had just been 
laid in the nest in a crotch near the end of a 
stout limb. Whirling and dashing about my 
head, the pair made me lose my balance, 
and I tumbled ten feet or more to the ground. 
As the intruder fell, they might well have 
exclaimed — perhaps they did — “ Sic semper 
tyrannis!” 
CRESTED FLYCATCHER 
Far more tyrannical than the kingbird is this 
“wild Irishman,” as John Burroughs calls the 
large flycatcher with the tousled head and 
harsh, uncanny voice, who prowls around the 
woods and orchards startling most feathered 
friends and foes with a loud, piercing ex- 
clamation that sounds like What! Unlike 
good children, he is more often heard than 
seen. 
That the solitary, unpopular bird takes a 
mischievous delight in scaring its enemies, you 
may know when I tell you that it likes better 
than any other lining for its nest, a cast snake 
skin. Is it any wonder that the baby fly- 
catchers’ hair stands on end? If the great- 
crest cannot find the skin of a snake to coil 
